Leukotomy
by CaliforniaStop
Summary: After everything, Elizabeth just wants a little bit of revenge.


The sight and smell of blood did not disturb Elizabeth as much as it used to; in Rapture, it was as common as the smell of cigarette smoke or the sight of silver-finned fish darting past a window. Still, she treaded lightly through the mess of what remained of Dr. Suchong. His body was still twitching in its death thrones, the Big Daddy's drill that pinned him to the table steaming lightly. Beneath his shoulder was a stack of files and folders. When she sifted through them, she found a piece of paper, crisply folded in two places. "The ace in the hole," she breathed. Attached to the piece of paper was a photograph of a young man. Elizabeth felt something needling at the back of her mind, a door that she could not open. She crushed the slip of paper in her fist. Everything she had been through since waking – all of it had been for _this_? Atlas had taken Sally hostage – Atlas had tied her up and threatened to lobotomize her – all for a fucking piece of paper?

Atlas wanted the ace, and then he was going to finish what he'd started when he'd had her at his mercy, and then–and then that would be it. She would die in this godforsaken city. Her temples throbbed as the door twitched at the periphery of her consciousness. Something was behind it, the answer to everything, but she couldn't get at it. It had something to do with the ace, and the young man in the photograph.

She sighed, stepped carefully through the congealing blood, and moved towards the door. Atlas was waiting and there was no point in delaying. Not when everything had already been set into motion. Not when this was her last chance, and there was no escape. A deep instinctual twinge pinched hard at her chest; she felt herself pushing hard at the door, trying to see what was behind it. The young man in the photograph was Atlas' ace: the thought came to her out of nowhere. She paused, unfolded the piece of paper, and studied it. Suchong's code was gibberish, but she knew how to decipher it. Something flashed in her mind's eye: a vision of Andrew Ryan, dead, and the young man in the photograph standing over his body.

The Big Daddy was watching its charges as they drew blood from the corpse of one of Suchong's patients. The two little girls hummed and laughed. Elizabeth watched the ADAM glowing, and was suddenly struck by a thought. She knelt beside the girls and took up one of their needles. She drew a long, steadying breath before plunging the needle into her arm and drawing some blood. Long dark plumes of red mingled with the bright pink ADAM. Straightening up, Elizabeth laid her hand on the Daddy's arm. It looked to her, washing her in the impassive yellow glow of its portholes. "I need you to help me," she said as she lined the needle up with the IV port on the inside of the Daddy's wrist. She pressed down with the plunger and injected the mixture of her blood and ADAM into the hulking behemoth. "Can you do that? Can you help me?"

The Daddy's portholes glowed green.

Atlas stood by the great window, flanked on either side by his loyal followers. Behind them, Rapture was dying: whole stretches of the city were in complete darkness; some of the underwater tunnels had collapsed; no bathyspheres drifted through the water. "'Bout time you showed up," Atlas drawled, his voice low and cold. "I was beginnin' ta think you'd forgotten about our li'l deal."

"I haven't forgotten," Elizabeth replied evenly. She held up the piece of paper. "Here's your ace."

Atlas's features visibly tightened. He stepped forward, one hand outstretched. "Give it here, love. Look," he said, gesturing with a lazy sweep of his hand to Sally, who twisted in a splicer's tight grasp, "got yer girl for ya. Just like I promised."

"I propose a _new_ deal," she replied, her eyes never leaving his. "Hand over the girl, and I don't have my new friend here turn you and your goons into red paste."

Atlas scowled darkly before the thunder of the Big Daddy's footsteps rumbled from behind Elizabeth. It moved into the light and came to her side with a groan that sounded like metal buckling under pressure. With a cry of fear and shock, one of Atlas' splicers raised his gun and fired; the shot ricocheted off the Daddy's helmet and set its portholes glowing a murderous red. It roared, charged, pinned the splicer to the window and crushed his ribcage. Two other splicers began shooting at it. The Daddy whirled around and barrelled towards them, knocking one away with a sweep of its thick arm; the other splicer, it headbutted before stomping on his skull. In the chaos, Sally scrambled away from her kidnapper and ran to Elizabeth, burying her face in Elizabeth's filthy skirt.

"Mr. B," Elizabeth said, drawing the Daddy's attention. It lumbered over to her, the red of its portholes fading. "Look after this girl. Keep her safe. Do you understand me?"

Sally peered up at the Daddy with those unholy yellow eyes. Finally, the Daddy extended its arm and the little girl went to its side with a giggle. "Are we gonna go find the angels, Mr. B?" she cooed. The Daddy groaned in what sounded like the affirmative.

Now, Elizabeth turned her attention on Atlas. He had not moved since the Daddy first attacked. The deaths of his comrades-in-arms hadn't fazed him in the least, it seemed. He looked at the mess of blood and bodies and then glanced at Elizabeth. "Well," he said, huffing a humourless sigh of laughter. "Ain't you just fulla surprises, love?" From the waist of his trousers, he pulled a six-shooter and levelled it at her head. "But I want me ace in the hole."

"Come and get it," Elizabeth purred, holding the piece of paper out between her thumb and forefinger. "Don't worry," she added, smirking as he eyed the Daddy, who lingered in the background, "he won't bite unless I tell him to."

Slowly, Atlas stepped forward, a frown creasing his brow. Elizabeth drew the paper back, by degrees, until they were almost toe-to-toe. He loomed over her, a snarl now twisting his lips. He reached for the ace, and she brought her knee up between his legs with as much force as she could muster. He hunched and cursed and raised the gun, and she lunged forward and sank her teeth into his hand. Atlas howled and dropped the gun. Elizabeth swiftly retrieved it, grasping it by the barrel, and swung hard at his head. The butt of the revolver cracked against his skull and he staggered sideways. The second blow split the skin of his temple, and he went down with a groan.

She breathed, sweaty strands of hair clinging to her brow and her cheeks; then, she turned him over with the toe of her shoe. The whites of his eyes were just visible beneath half-closed lids. A spurt of red trickled from his temple, across his cheek. She dropped the revolver with a clatter. "Mr. B!" she called. The Daddy lumbered to her side like a dutiful servant, Sally's little hand secure in its large, gloved one. "I need your help for one more thing," she said softly.

The Daddy groaned, grabbed a fistful of Atlas' shirtfront and, at Elizabeth's direction, unceremoniously dragged the unconscious man towards the bathysphere.

* * *

><p>Atlas came to in a smear of red. His eyeballs throbbed and the teeth in his jaw felt lose. Dull needles of pain drilled at the inside of his skull. When he tried to reach up and check the damage, he couldn't; his wrists were bound to the armrests of a patient's chair, reclining slightly such that the bright overhead light burned directly into his retinas. Elizabeth's bright blue eyes, her lips, red, the lipstick smudged at the corner of her mouth, parting as she held out the ace to him, her teeth sinking into his hand like the feral bitch she was, all of it flashed in his mind's eye. He growled and strained against his bonds but he was secure, and helpless.<p>

He heard the crackle of someone inhaling on a cigarette and lifted his eyes. Elizabeth stood at a workbench, her hip cocked, one ankle crossed behind the other. She appeared to be reading something. Smoke drifted over her head as she exhaled.

"Dr. Steinman gave you some _very_ extensive clinical notes," she remarked. "Says here he performed a transorbital lobotomy on one of his scrub nurses." Elizabeth inhaled, slowly, then exhaled as she added, "She didn't survive."

"What the _fuck_d'ya t'ink you're doin'?" Atlas hissed. "We had a _deal_."

"A deal that you had no intention of honouring," Elizabeth said, turning slowly and offering him a feline smile.

Now, Atlas smirked. "You don't know that, love. I had _every_ intention of handin' t'at little _brat_ over to you."

She took another long drag on her cigarette, her eyes narrowing as smoke poured from her nostrils. "Still keeping the accent, huh? Now that _is_ dedication."

"What're you talkin' about?"

She rolled her eyes. "_Enough_," she barked. "Enough of your lies. I know _exactly_ who you are."

Atlas' eyes hardened, his jaw setting very tightly. "Do you now?" he purred, cocking his head. A sweaty curl of dark hair fell across his brow. "If that's the case, darlin', then you know you're in over your head and you should untie me _now_."

Elizabeth moved towards him, the cigarette poised between her first two fingers. Her hips swayed with each slow step. When she was close enough, she held out the cigarette to him. "Have a drag," she said, "one last indulgence."

Atlas chuckled, though he leant forward and allowed her to stick the cigarette between his teeth. He clamped down, took a deep pull, and exhaled from the side of his mouth. Elizabeth withdrew the cigarette and made as if to put it out against the side of his face. He flinched, that insufferable arrogance fading from his features for half a second, before she laughed – a full, gleeful laugh – and dropped the cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the toe of her shoe.

"What should I call you during the procedure? Atlas or Frank? Or maybe _Mr. Fontaine_ would make you more comfortable," she said, swaying back to the workbench and resuming her reading.

"Procedure?" he echoed, his voice cracking half-way through.

"You had me tied to a chair. You had me injected. You put a _pick_ in my _eye_ and you threatened to _destroy_ me, my memories. You _tortured_ me." Her voice turned as cold and sharp as a blade. "It's only fair that I repay the favour."

Atlas knew that begging her would be laughable. Instead, he said, "You don't got it in ya, love."

Elizabeth let loose a short, bitter bark of laughter. "Really? You have no idea what I'm capable of, Mr. Fontaine."

"Killin' a bunch'a drug-addicted loonies don't make ya a tough little cookie, y'know. That's survival. But _this_… this is not somethin' you can do."

"And how do you know that?" Elizabeth spat, turning her attention from Steinman's notes to the trayful of instruments. She trailed her index finger down the edge of a scalpel, and shivered.

"I saw it, when I had t'at little girl brought in, strapped to a gurney, and I threatened to stir _her_ brains. You're a bleedin' heart, sister."

"If I were generous," she said, ignoring him, "I might give you something to make it less painful. I might even put you to sleep. But I want to _watch_ it. I want to watch the light fade from your eyes…" She took up the pick, slightly curved and very sharp at the end, and a small silver hammer, and stepped towards him again.

He stiffened, his shoulders hunching. Nervous perspiration shone on his face, his neck. "Let's talk about this, love," he said. "You want the girl? You have her. Let me go and I'll let you get onto a bathysphere outta here. Scout's honor."

"Do I have to gag you?" she said, scowling. "Your talking is distracting, and distractions during a medical procedure are _dangerous_." Now, she angled the pick towards his eye but he rolled his head away from her. She sighed and said, "I _thought_ you would be cooperative but it seems I have to restrain you." Clamping the pick and the small hammer between her teeth, she brought a wide leather strap down across his forehead and cinched it tightly, securing his head in place.

"Jesus Christ, you crazy _whore_," he snarled, straining and arching like a panicked animal trapped in a snare, his rich Irish brogue gone in favour of a coarse Bronx rumble, "whaddaya think this'll accomplish?!"

"I don't think it'll accomplish anything except making me feel a little better. Now, hold still. I've read that some of the side-effects of botched procedures are _quite_ nasty. Haemorrhages, seizures, _death_." She clucked her tongue as Atlas rapidly turned grey, his breathing growing labored in his panic. "Don't worry – I had a lot of time to read the manuals while you were out. If I do it right, the worst you'll have is two black eyes."

Slowly, watching the black points of his pupils blowing open in fear, she angled the pick beneath his eyelid, pushed past his eyeball, and lodged it into his orbital socket. He groaned, arched, took several steadying breaths.

"You feel that?" she mocked. "I'm _moving_ the pick _across_ your eyeball–ah, ah, don't _move_. You're going to get yourself _hurt_." She raised the hammer; it glinted in the light. "Now, I just need to _tap-tap-tap_ through your skull…" And she tapped the hammer against the base of the pick, very softly, almost as if she were teasing him. He felt ever reverberation in his back molars. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, but couldn't. He hissed and twisted.

"Take that _fuckin'_thing _outta_ my head _right now_ or you're gonna regret it, you little bitch," he spat.

"After I'm finished, you'll be a _lot_ more pleasant," she returned with a wan smile. She tapped the hammer again, a little more forcefully this time. "How's it feel, Mr. Fontaine? Are you _scared_?" From the corner of her eye, she watched as his hands scrabbled on the cracked leather of the armrests, fingers digging for purchase. "Of course you are. You've never been in this position before, have you? Completely and utterly helpless."

She tapped with the hammer again, and again, and again, until she heard a faint crack and felt the pick shift. "Ah," she breathed, "I think that's done it. Dr. Steinman did say that I'd know when I was through."

Atlas was frozen, his eyes like glass, save for a faint trembling which wracked his entire frame. His mouth hung open.

"Now," Elizabeth said, setting the hammer aside and bracing her free hand on his shoulder, "all I do is _stir the pick_. Right? I just have to turn that frontal lobe of yours to _goop_. Like this?" She pivoted her wrist from side-to-side in careful, slow motions. Atlas' expression slackened, his eyes losing their focus. A stream of unintelligible sound fell from his lips. Elizabeth hushed him. "Won't be long now," she cooed, digging more violently with the pick. She felt every iota of fury in her body erupt, every desire for revenge swell in her chest, every instinct to make him pay guide her hand.

She must have gone too far, though. He gurgled, twisted, began seizing. She withdrew her hand but left the pick hanging from his eye socket like a bare flagpole. Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth as his chest heaved with breaths that he struggled to take. She watched, her skin crawling, as a dribble of blood ran from the inner corner of his eye like tears, and then he stilled.

Elizabeth wasn't sure if he was dead or alive; she didn't dare touch him. She turned to the workbench again, fighting down the rising tide of nausea in her chest (Atlas had been right, of course – she _didn't_have any gratuitous sadism in her, but it was over now). She retrieved the revolver, checked it was loaded, and raced out of the room, one of the cleaner ones inside Suchong's clinic. Outside, the waiting Daddy still had Sally. Elizabeth knelt and opened her arms, and the little girl ran to her.

"You're safe now, Sally," Elizabeth breathed, hugging the girl tightly to her chest. "We're getting out of here." She dismissed the Big Daddy, who lumbered to one of the vents in the wall to find a new charge, and, holding Sally on her hip, she ran to Atlas' bathysphere and directed it to the return to the city.


End file.
